


Last Tango in Holby

by starraya



Category: Holby City
Genre: AU, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Fuck you Sally Wainwright, No lesbians are going to die, OSC - original sheep character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2018-11-12 02:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11152140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starraya/pseuds/starraya
Summary: Bernie Wolfe doesn't like Serena Campbell.Serena Campbell doesn't like Bernie Wolfe.Pity.They're about to become grandmothers together.AKA The Last Tango in Halifax AU with added (alive!) lesbians. What do you mean this was just an excuse to give Serena Caroline Elliot's wardrobe and make Bernie wear plaid all the time? I'm not that shallow a lesbian.Okay, yes I am. Of course I am.





	1. Chapter 1

Serena throws her bags into the passenger seat of her car. Slams the door. She eyes the pair of heels that poke out of a carrier bag. Leopard print and murder for her feet. What was it that they said about fashion? No pain, no gain. Not true.

She’s sold her soul to this hospital. She keeps AAU firing on all cylinders, day in, day out, despite the pitiful lack of adequate trauma facilities or any adequate facilities, come to think of it. There is the NHS living under fiscally challenging times and then there’s just taking the piss.

How many fundraisers has she attended? How many times has she dressed up and flirted, smooth-talking her way around a party? Serena Campbell, Deputy CEO, currently unbeaten by any other member of staff in the number of donations she’s wooed from Holby’s elite. And her department hardly sees a penny of it.

She thought it would pay off. Every mountain of paperwork she’s trudged through after her shift ended, every hour spent in the boardroom listening to men – who looked as if they were just out of nappies and had never held a scalpel in their life – lecture her.

She thought this was it.

She bought a new shirt. Horribly expensive. New shoes. Likewise. This morning, she even shimmied her way into a pencil skirt – a rarer than Halley’s comet occurrence simply due to its sheer impracticality. Try wheeling a patient into theatre in a pencil skirt. Try doing anything in a pencil skirt.

But she wanted to look the part for when she was appointed Holby’s City new CEO.

Except she wasn’t.

-

Bernie Wolfe is one second away from embodying her surname. She will strangle that sheep. She will drop her walking stick, clamber over the fence – her stupid, broken body be damned – and strangle that fucking sheep.

You would think that she’d have gotten used to it, wouldn’t you? The screeching of roosters, the clucking of chickens, the shrieking of piglets and the God damn bleating of sheep. It grated on her every nerve. Not that she could tell her cousin Kate – the owner of the farm – that after she’s given Bernie a roof her head and a ‘quiet, relaxing place to rehabilitate’. A place for Bernie to ruminate over how her marriage – and life – fell to pieces.

Playing happy families with Marcus is no longer an option. Not that Bernie has any skill in that department. Emergency surgery in the heat and dust of the Afghan desert, she can do. Marriage, evidently not. Motherhood . . . well, she discovered yesterday that Marcus has got the kids to sign statements supporting his case for the divorce. Chapter and verse on her failings as a wife and mother.

Bernie seethes at the thought. How dare he? How dare he turn this into a battle and manipulate her children onto his side? Bernie prods her walking stick into the ground. She glowers at the sheep next to her. It won’t stop staring at her, face pressed up against the gate. It won’t stop baaing. Deep, guttural, constant baas.

Aimed at Bernie.

Forget about the stupid sheep, she thinks. Breathe. She’s nearly at the house. Her walk is nearly over. As pathetic as the length was, it’s all she can manage right now. Small steps, her therapist advised. Not just literally, but figuratively. Recovery was a journey, physically and mentally. It takes time.

It’s taken too much time for Bernie’s liking.

She’s losing her mind, trapped on this farm. The endless days and nights bleed into each other, give her boundless space to think. Think about Alex. Think about Marcus. Think about her children. Think about everything she’s fucked up and run from.

Thinking is the last thing she needs. She needs to do. She needs something to concentrate her mind on. Her physical therapist still refuses to give her the green light for work. Deep down, Bernie knows it’s probably for the best, necessary even, like ripping off a plaster to inspect the wound beneath. How well it’s healed. If it might scar.

Stupid metaphor. A few weeks ago, her chest was cut open. Stitched back up. A few weeks ago, her life shattered. And she’s terrified to assess the damage. To pick out the shrapnel. For fear she’ll discover other wounds, old wounds, tears she made in the fabric of her family and left open and bleeding each time she fled back to the army.

It is time to pull the plaster. Inspect the wounds.

Bernie trudges on, unaware that the sheep – Daffodil, if one cares to know – has snuck under the gate, stopped baaing and is now quietly, but determinedly, following Bernie back to the house.

-

Before she pulls off the car park, Serena checks her phone. Still no reply off Elinor. What is she playing at? Serena debates calling her again, but knows it will go to voicemail. Elinor can’t just give her radio silence after summoning her like that.

_No, it can’t wait. Please come as soon as you can. Nothing to worry about. Just need to talk to you._

Serena, despite her daughter’s insistence, is worried. Very.

Elinor texts her the address of a random pub in Holby and tells her that she needs to talk to her. Immediately. Her and Elinor haven’t talked – the kind of talk Elinor’s suggesting – since Elinor hit the terrible teens.

Drink. The first thing in Serena’s mind. Drink or drugs.

Memories of her daughter’s house party flash before Serena’s eyes. _Oh God_. _Whatever this is, it can’t be good._

_-_

Bernie eases herself into her car. She shouldn’t technically drive. But she’s a doctor – that gives her a free pass to take whatever advice other doctors with a pinch of salt, or maybe a whole cup of it in this case.

Besides, screw advice. Cam needs her. He’s asked her to see him as soon as possible. He must not hate her after all. To text her out the blue. Call for help. They’ve hardly talked since Bernie returned home, days comprised of stilted family dinners – like the kind when Bernie cooked her special Spaghetti Bolognese that Cam and Charlotte always wolfed down as kids, only to discover that Charlotte was vegetarian, had been for a year now, and that Cam, on Wednesday nights, eats with the lads after their weekly kick around.

It wasn’t easy. Trying to fit back into the family fold. To try and play catch up. Any progress she made with Cam or Charlotte was no more. Not after ‘oh by the way mummy’s a lesbian, kept it a secret all this years – like the affair she was having with her female best friend’.

But, this, Cameron’s text, feels like an olive branch. A change in the winds. And, Bernie smiles, maybe, just maybe, proof that – despite his growth into adulthood and all the years of it Bernie missed, he still needs her. Still needs his mum.

Grinning, Bernie reverses out of the driveway. Nearly jumps out of her skin.

_Baa!_

She manages to stop the car in time. Manages to not commit roadkill. When she looks behind her she sees that bloody sheep. It strolls up to the driver’s window, face blank and fearless in the face of near-death. It gapes at her.

Baas.

“Next time,” Bernie mutters her breath, “I won’t stop.” She drives off. Daffodil watches the silver of her car disappear.

Maybe, Bernie reflects later, it was some sort of omen. Some sort of warning or symbol. Sheep. Lambs. Pictures of spring. Pictures of birth.

-

Cameron raises a glass of coke to his lips. Downs what remains of it in one gulp.

“That’s your third,” Elinor reminds him. “You better not bugger off to the loo when our mothers arrive.”

“I won’t,” Cameron promises, although he can feel the tell-tale pressure build in his bladder. “I told you. We’re in this together and when our mothers do arrive –”

Elinor groans. Pushes her arms out on the table. Brings her head down. “ _Our mothers._ Why did we call them?”

“Because . . . we decided that, as responsible adults, we couldn’t logically hide this forever and the longer we did, the worse it would get.”

“Mum’s going to flip.”

“My mother is a Major. In the army. Ex-Iraq. Ex-Afghanistan. If I survive tonight, let’s consider it a miracle.”

“Mine is Deputy CEO of Holby City. She charms all the junior doctors like ducks from a pond and then devours them for dinner. And that’s just a hobby of hers.”

Cameron grows pale. “ _What have we done_?”

“That is indeed the million-dollar question,” Elinor murmurs, face still buried in her arms.

-

As Bernie drives to the pub Cam gave her the name of, all sort of thoughts reel through her mind. He’s in trouble – why else would he call her? But what kind? Bernie’s gut churns as her brain conjures up scenario after scenario.

What if’s he dropped out of Uni? What if he’s got kicked out?

What if he’s done it again? Was a six-grand fine and a one year ban not enough for him to learn not to drink drive?

When she reaches the pub, her heart is racing. What if he’s ill? Or hurt? What if it’s serious?

-

“Oi!” Serena calls out her car window.

“Sorry emergency,” a woman in a plaid shirt, torn skinny jeans, and boots with a head of messy blonde hair calls back as she emerges from her car. It’s parked in the exact same spot Serena is – or rather was – reversing into.

_Clearly_ reversing into.

Serena bites back another – less PG –  retort. Finds another spot. Grabs her handbag from the passenger seat and marches into the pub. Forgets about the trainers she swapped to earlier to drive home in. How they don’t exactly colour code with her pencil skirt

She sees Elinor, sat at a table in the corner. That woman is next to her. Serena storms over.

“That was the most selfish, mindless piece of driving I have ever witnessed.”

“I won’t be a minute.” Bernie turns to Serena. “Then you can have it.”

“You could see I’d got my reversing lights on. You could see I’d already started manoeuvring.”

“Yeah, well, if you keep your hair on I’ll be less than sixty seconds.”

“Idiot.”

“Stuck-up bloody – “

“Mum!” Cameron and Ellie cry in unison.

Serena turns to her daughter. Leans down and reaches for her hand. “Ellie, darling, are you alright?”

“Umm.” Ellie looks at Cameron for help.

“Who’s this?” Serena asks.

“Err. . .“ Cameron’s voice dries up.

“ _This_ ,” Bernie supplies, “is _my_ son.”

Serena does not care for her tone. “We’re going to have to go, Ellie, some scarecrow who doesn’t know what a hairbrush is and,” Serena glances at Bernie’s crumpled shirt, “has clearly never heard of an iron stole my parking space.”

Bernie scoffs. Rakes her eyes down Serena's body. The tailored blazer, the crisp white shirt - that probably cost three times more than the limit Bernie would spend on any item of clothing, period - and charcoal pencil skirt. If ever there was a code for dull and righteous and hasn't had a decent shag in years, the other woman opposite her was the epitome.

“At least," Bernie retorts, "I don't have a rod up my backside or vote UKIP.”

Serena pins her with a deathly stare. “What did you just say? UKIP? I’ll have you know –”

“Mum, _please_.” Elinor begs. “I need to tell you something. We need to tell you something.”

“Both of you,” Cameron says. Takes Elinor’s hand aross the table and squeezes it.

Elinor inhales. Deeply. “I’m pregnant.”

“And,” Cameron turns to Bernie. “It’s mine.”

Pin-drop silence. Broken by Bernie and Serena simultaneously.

“ _What?"_


	2. Chapter 2

“Please tell me this is some sort of joke,” Serena levels at her daughter.

“Cam?” Bernie asks. “Is this true?”

He nods. “Congratulations?” His voice, and smile, is weak. “You’re going to be grandmothers.”

“I don’t believe this.” Serena rubs a hand across her forehead. “This is not happening.”

“Looks like it is,” Bernie murmurs, the news slowly sinking in.

“Sorry?” Serena turns to Bernie.

“It is happening. We have to deal with it.”

Serena scoffs. How can the woman be so blasé? “Well you might be happy to have your child ruin their life and get my daughter pregnant but –”

“Excuse me,” Bernie juts in. “This isn’t just on Cam. Last time I checked it takes two to tango. Or did they not teach you sex ed at whatever posh finishing school for girls with rods stuck up their –”

“Yes. You’ve already used that insult. Do try some variety, please. It’s ever so dull.” Bernie presses her lips together. Closes her eyes for a second. Leave it, she thinks. There are much bigger fish to fry right now. Baby-sized fish.

“How long have you been dating? Cam, you never mentioned . . .”

“We haven’t,” he replies.

“It was a . . . one night thing,” Elinor explains.

Serena clenches her fists in the air. Loosens them with a dramatic wave. “Oh, this just gets better and better. A one night stand. Ellie, how could you be so careless?”

“Mum,” Elinor pleads. Half the pub has turned to stare at them. “Can we not do this now?”

“ _You_ called  _me_  here.”

“Yes. To a public place. So, you wouldn’t go all . . .”

“All what?”

“This,” Elinor gestures vaguely.

“Miss Trunchbull,” Serena hears Bernie mutter under her breath. Serena feels every muscle in her body coil tight. It’s not worth it, she tells herself. She’s not worth it. Serena ignores Bernie. Focuses on Elinor. “What did you expect? For me to light a sparkler, wave a flag and hang up some bunting?”

“No, but –”

"Did you not think I’d be shocked?”

“Of course, I did,” Elinor bursts out. “For years now, you’ve been too busy trying to fix your own life to care about mine.”

“That’s not true.”

“I never see you. I can’t remember the last we talked. Properly talked.”

“Yes, well communication’s a two-way street.”

“All you care about is your precious hospital. Getting your precious promotion. You spend so much time there anyone would think you’re copping off with one of the other doctors, but you’re not. You’re married to your job and it’s all you’ve got time for. No wonder Dad went and looked elsewhere.”

“Elinor Elizabeth Campbell,” Serena pulls her handbag up on her arm. “Get your coat. We’re leaving. Now.”

Elinor knows it isn’t a request. She gives Cam a look of apology. Mouths that she’ll call him.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs Dunn.”

“Ms Wolfe,” Bernie tells her.

“Ms Wolfe,” Elinor corrects herself. Smiles at Bernie. Follows her mother out the pub.

“See you,” Cameron calls feebly.

“So,” Bernie breathes. Takes off her coat. Deposits it on the seat next to Cameron. “Please tell me she’s nothing like her mother.”

Cameron laughs despite himself. Fear is welling inside him as quickly as the gallons of coke he’d downed. His mother is curiously calm. He wonders what’s bubbling beneath the surface and just when it will break. Bernie asks him if he wants a drink. He shakes his head. When she goes up to the bar, Cameron bolts to the loo. Considers bolting entirely. Making a runner from the pub. Taking his chances out a back door. But he promised himself, he promised Elinor and their baby he’d do the right thing. And, in this moment, it means staying. Facing the Major. Facing his mother. When he returns to the table, Bernie is sipping a glass of whiskey. He doesn’t know whether that’s a good sign or not. Bernie pushes across the table a packet of crisps. Salt and vinegar. His favourite. And not the dressing-down Cameron had braced himself for.

Bernie sees her son’s expectant face. “I’m not exactly in a position to judge,” she explains. She’s far from mum of the year. She’s far from a best role model for life choices. She hasn’t a clue what her son was thinking, but knows the screwing-up gene is from her side.

“That’s it?” Cameron asks. “That’s all you’ve –”

“What do you want? A pat on the back?” A smile flickers at the corners of Cameron’s lips at Bernie’s acerbic quip. It sounds more like the Major. “You said it was a one-night stand.” Bernie sees no point in mincing her words. “But you’ve met up since? Talked things through. The . . . options?”

“Yeah. She wants to keep it . . . the baby.”

“Her choice."

“I know. I told her . . . I told her I’d support her if . . .”

“Good.” Bernie leans forward and pickpockets a crisp from Cameron. “How do you feel about it?”

Cameron takes a deep breath. “Honestly? I still haven’t entirely got my head around it. But I will. I’ve promised to stick by Elinor’s side. The whole way. I’m in this with her, completely.”

“A baby’s a big thing, Cam. Life-changing. You’re gonna to have to be.” Bernie’s words aren’t sharp. There’s no bite in them. Just truth. It terrifies him, down to his core, but Cameron knows she’s right.

-

Bernie offers to drive Cameron home. Ostensibly, to save him catching the bus. Truthfully, a tactic on Bernie’s behalf to force him – and her – to talk some more, pressured by the sharing of a confined space. Car journeys: fertile ground for awkward, uncomfortable silences to spring up like weeds and suffocate you if you don’t hack them back, break the silence. Talk. When they exit the pub, they spot Elinor and Serena. Both stood next to a smoking car. 

“Which part of I need my car today are you struggling to understand? . . . Hello?”

Bernie watches Serena pull the phone from her ear. Frown. Any other day, presented with such a scene, Bernie would have pitied the stranger’s luck, briefly thanked the stars it wasn’t hers and moved on. But Cam walks ahead, towards Serena and Elinor and – damn it – Bernie is compelled to follow. She fumbles for a cigarette and lighter in her pocket. She needs it. If she’s going to face that woman again. One does not poke a bear, one does not poke a very pissed off looking bear, but Bernie could never resist a challenge. She swaggers forth into Serena’s circle of wrath. Braves the flames once more.

“Engine been whining or growling?” she calls, words mumbled by the cigarette in her mouth. “Any intermittent smell of hot or burning rubber?”

“Define intermittent.” Serena swivels around to her.

“Alternator might be cactus.”

“Sounds bad,” Serena concedes. “Or it would, in English.”  _Cactus? What on earth does that mean? What planet does it come from? Not this one._

“It is. If you want to drive anywhere.”

“Funny. You don’t look like a mechanic. Well, apart from the fag.”

“I’m not a mechanic, I’m –”

“Pity,” Serena brushes her off, “I’ll just have to wait ‘til the real one gets here.” She truly doubts whether this woman knows anything about cars, considering that she has moved her cigarette from her mouth to her hand and doesn’t look like she knows that the idea is to light it. Serena tells her so – like an adult chastising a toddler.

 _I think you’re also meant not to bite the mechanic’s ear off to the point they hang up_. Luckily, Cam nudges his mother – stops her from voicing those thoughts – and slides her a look. A –  _the mother of my unborn child is trapped out in freezing weather when we have a perfectly serviceable car_  – look. Bernie slips her cigarette back in her pocket. It’s the snag of being both a doctor and ex-army. The need to help runs deep through Bernie’s bones and her noble streak is inches wide. Even where snotty, arrogant strangers are concerned.

“I suppose, we could . . . I could. . . I mean,” she starts, shuffling on the spot, shoving her hands into her pockets – it truly is freezing and she always forgets her gloves. “Where do you live?”

Serena looks as if Bernie’s slapped her. “Oh, that’s not necessary, I assure you.”

“But, mum, it could be hours,” Elinor chimes in.

“Yes, well, I don’t pay the insurance for nothing.”

“They don’t look like they’re calling you back any time soon.” Serena stills. Run her teeth over her bottom lip, releases it. “ _Elinor.”_

If ever a look could kill, Bernie thinks. Feels more than a twang of pity for the girl. Feels more than a twang of pity for herself when Serena turns back to Bernie and locks eyes on her.

“Thank you,” Serena tells her – her daughter’s repeated back cheek, her repeated humiliation of Serena in front of a pair of strangers rapidly twisting into fury – “but we’ll be perfectly fine by ourselves.”

 _They were perfectly fine_ , Bernie receives the message loud and clear,  _until her son impregnated Serena’s daughter_.

"If it is the alternator, there’s a way you can fix it,” Cameron remembers, “if you just –”

“Thank you,” Serena silences him. “But I rather think you’ve done enough damage already.”

Bernie’s noble streak snap in half. “Right,” she says. “Offer’s gone.” She grasps her son’s arm. “Elinor,” she addresses only one of the women in front of her, “it was nice to meet you. Cam will be in touch.”

Shortly after, Bernie drives off the car park. Rage radiates off her in waves. When Cam asks if she no longer needs her walking stick – since in her haste to make sure he was fine she forgot it – Bernie tells him no, she stills needs it. She spits the words out, frustration at her broken body creeping through once more – along with an ache in her back. Cameron doesn’t mention it again. Silence descends. Shattered by Cameron’s yells.

“Mum! Watch out!” Bernie stops the car. Hard. “What? What was that?”

There was a flash of white across the otherwise empty road.

“You nearly ran it over.”

“A sheep?” Bernie asks.

Cameron’s brow furrows. “ _A sheep?_ Mum, we came off the motorway five minutes ago.”

Bernie shrugs. Starts the car up again. She is driving Cam to his dad’s, not Kate’s farm – it’s in the opposite direction – but all her years in the RAMC have taught her never to underestimate her enemies. She does not put anything past that sheep. Even a death wish.

“No,” Cameron says, matter of fact, “It was a goose.”

“Oh, well that’s certainly makes more sense.” Bernie bursts into laughter, loud, honking peels that have Cameron soon following suit. That make their ribs ache, their eyes water.  Bernie forgets just for a few minutes, that she nearly committed roadkill for the second time that day and that her son, her baby boy, is due to become a father.

-

“ _Mum_ , say something,” Elinor pleads when the silence in the car becomes unbearable. Thankfully, they weren’t waiting for hours in the car park. Serena rang the mechanic again, charmed, sweet-talked, wrapped up warnings of complaints within a tone of sugar. Had _him_  apologising to  _them_  when he arrived, within the hour. It was a simple procedure. No need to tow the car to a garage. Just the alternator. Elinor watched her mother’s cheeks colour slightly, but didn’t say anything. Not even when the mechanic left. When they started off home. She hasn’t uttered a word. And nor has Serena. Until now.

“Say what exactly?” Serena asks Elinor. “Want me to lecture you on responsibility and sex and contraception. I think that ship's passed, don’t you?”

“We did use . . .” Elinor mumbles, her cheeks flaming red. “It . . . it . . . broke . . . it truly was an accident.” Elinor plays with her fingers in her lap. The quiet returns and stretches painfully on.

“Fine,” Elinor huffs at her mother’s silent treatment. “Ignore me.”

Serena pulls into their street. Stays silent until –

“It’s not like that isn’t what you already do.”

Serena sighs. Deeply. “I’m not . . . I’m not . . . ignoring you. I’m thinking. After tea, I promise, we’ll talk. Properly. But, for now, I just need some time to think.” She reaches the driveway. Night has fallen. Through the darkness, her car lights shine on another car. Edward’s. Serena groans as she pulls the handbrake.

“You need time to plan how you’re going to rule your new kingdom tomorrow, you mean.” Elinor snaps off her seatbelt. Pushes open the passenger door. “Bitch,” she hisses, low but loud enough for her mum to hear.

“I didn’t get it. The job.” Serena turns to her daughter, for the first time since the journey began. “They chose someone else.”

She climbs out the car. Waits for Elinor to, so she can lock it. The minute she does Serena crosses the path to her front door. Braces herself for a drunken Edward, wonders which mood she’ll get tonight, remorseful or bitter or furious. Wonders if Edward will scream at her or scrounge for sympathy.

“Mum.” Elinor runs up to her. “Wait. Don’t tell dad.”

“About what? Which B-word are we talking about here?”

“Mum, please. I’m sorry. Just don’t tell him. Not yet.”

“Okay,” Serena agrees, voice soft and the least _bitch_ -like it has been all day. She meant what she said about talking later, properly. She’s promised herself not to yell or shout. To just listen. She doesn’t want to say anything else she might regret in the heat of the moment. She’ll process things, first. Calm down. Clear her head. Stop scolding her daughter like a child and treat her like the adult she is. A _pregnant_ adult.

As they enter the hallway, Serena sets down her bags on the side table. Elinor spots the leopard print heels she helped her mum pick her out two weeks ago when Serena was fretting over what to wear for the interview. “Nice shoes.”

“Nice try,” Serena smirks, although there is no force in her sarcasm. “We’re still having that talk though."

“Okay,” Elinor repeats her mother’s words. The dimple in her chin deepening just like her mother’s as she smiles. Serena watches her daughter climb the stairs. Disappear into her room. Serena turns to the kitchen. Where the alcohol is. Where Edward likely is. She pauses. Raises a hand to her shoulder, rubs at the knot there. It’s been a long day. It’s about to get longer.


	3. Chapter 3

“Hi,” Edward greets her.

“Hello.” Serena looks around the kitchen. Not a glass or bottle in sight.

“I let myself in.”

“So I see.”

“Didn’t know you still had a key.”

“Do you want it back?”

Serena shrugs her shoulders. Strides past him to the fridge.

“How’s your day been?” he asks.

Serena’s fingers touch the cold glass of shiraz. One that’s been at the centre of her fantasies for most of the day. “Fine.”

“Good.”

Serena’s glad she never told him about the CEO position. About the interview. She pulls out the wine, shuts the fridge and sets the bottle on the counter. Hesitates. Edward’s remarkably sober. Isn’t this tempting fate? Drinking in front of an alcoholic?

“Did you erm . . . get the job?”

“Who told you?”

“I have a mate, he’s a locum at Holby. Michael Dobson.”

Serena fetches a glass from the cupboard. Slams it shut. That slime-ball. She has no doubt that Michael bloody Dobson will, in good time, tell Edward that no, she did not get the job. Serena pours the wine. Takes a generous gulp. Screw Edward. This is her home. Not his, anymore. If she wants to drink, she’ll drink.

“Edward. Why are you here?”

Edward sits at the kitchen table. Probably expects Serena to join him there. She remains at the counter. Arches an eyebrow impatiently. Sips wine.

“Turns out,” Edward admits, “Liberty’s a bit of an alcoholic.”

“She’s an alcoholic?”

“I know she erm . . . had a significant relationship with the stuff but I didn’t the realise the extent of it.”

“Well . . .” Serena’s tired. Her head throbs. Edward’s looking at her, eyes wide like a wounded puppy who didn’t know better than to stray off the path and she’s just so goddamn tired of it. Of him.  “Congratulations,” Serena tells him, “I’m glad you found your soulmate. Only took you 50 years, but . . .”

“Serena. She doesn’t just have a problem with alcohol. She’s . . . she’s a user.” Edward clears his throat, clarifies. “Of drugs.”

“Oh.” Serena lowers her wine glass. “Has she tried to get help?”

“Yeah. More than once. I don’t think it’s something that’ll sort itself out. Well, if ever, in fact, so . . . yeah.”

“So, how does this involve me?”

Edward stands up. Moves forward to Serena. Serena, for one fleeting moment, has the horrible idea that he’ll try to kiss her. He’s tried it before when he was three sheets to the wind. Tried to rekindle a flame, when the landscape between them is only ever now an icy terrain.

“I was wondering,” Elinor appears in the doorway, “if you wanted some help with tea?”

You wanted a chance to eavesdrop on your dad and I, Serena thinks. Not missing a trick. But Edward is Elinor’s dad. It’s only natural she wants to see him. Serena can’t, she won’t, deny Elinor that.

“Ellie,” he smiles, “Come here.” He kisses her on the head. Hugs her close. “How’s my baby girl doing?”

“Good. I –”

“Just good?”

“Ellie, I’ve changed my mind.” Serena interrupts, saves her daughter from admitting something she isn’t ready to yet. “What do you say to takeout instead?”

“Err . . . yes!” Elinor grins. “What do you fancy? Indian? Chinese?”

“You pick.”

“I’ll pay,” Edward offers. Pulls out his wallet. Serena pins him with a stare that really isn’t necessary. “Please, can’t I buy my wife and daughter a takeout?”

“Alright,” Serena concedes.

“Thanks dad.” Elinor happily swipes Edward’s credit card.

As Elinor bounds out the kitchen, Serena calls to her. “The menus are in the – “

“Alcove. I know.”

Serena pours herself another glass of wine. Sees a flicker of something spread across Edward’s face. She arches an eyebrow. Dares him to comment. Judge her wine consumption.

“Ex.” She corrects him.

“What?”

“Ex-wife. As of,” she flicks a look to the calendar, “one year and two months ago. I mean if we’re getting technical then eight months. Because this is what this is all about, isn’t it?”

“I’ve made a terrible mistake, Serena.”

“You want to come back?”

“Liberty she’s . . . she’s difficult.”

“And God forbid you stay and deal with that.” God forbid he lie in the bed he’s made – another woman’s bed no less. God forbid he take some responsibility for his actions. His infidelity. “Why not just run back here and play happy families instead?”

“She hit me.”

“What?”

“It was only . . . only a slap. Didn’t even bruise. Thankfully. But she has these moods. Swings between high and low. It’s the drugs. She gets unpredictable, aggressive. Difficult.”

Serena’s voice softens. “Have you talked about it . . . with her?”

“No.”

“You need to. When she’s sober.”

“I will. Tomorrow. But . . . tonight, can I stay?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” At this point Elinor decides to stop eavesdropping and re-join the kitchen – and the conversation. “She hit him. Dad, are you alright?”

“Fine. Fine. I told your mum. It was a one-time thing.”

“But clearly you can’t go back. Not tonight.” Elinor turns to Serena. “Why won’t you let him stay?”

“It’s complicated. And Elinor, up until now it was also a private conversation.”

“How can you be so heartless? If it was a woman abused by a man – “

“Elinor. It’s got nothing to do with sexism.” Serena moves from behind the counter, closer to Edward. “Have you tried calling your brother, maybe he could –”

“You really have got no time for anyone but yourself, have you?” Elinor storms out the kitchen.

“Elinor!”

Overhead, Elinor’s footsteps thunder up the stairs. Serena looks up, fully expecting plaster dust to scatter from the ceiling. She looks back to Edward. His face is desperate and pleading.

“Spare room,” she says, “One night.” She picks up her glass of wine. The bottle too. Leaves Edward for the other spare room, downstairs. The solitude of her office is welcome. The mountain of work waiting for her not so much.

-

“. . . and she was just so . . . standoffish.”

“Standoffish?”

“Yeah, all high and mighty.” Bernie shuts the fridge with a bit more force than necessary. “Like we weren’t worthy to share the air she breathed.”

Standing opposite her cousin in the kitchen, Kate leans back against the counter, a mug of hot chocolate cradled in her hands. “Maybe she was just . . . off-balance. It must have been a shock for her too.”

“Nope. Pretty sure she’s a trained professional in . . .urghh.” Bernie twists the cap of the milk. Frowns. It won’t budge. Kate watches in amusement as Bernie blows out a breath of air. Twists the cap again. Grunts. Snatches a tea-towel from a hook on the wall. Jams it on the top of the bottle of milk, wrenches the cap off.

She pours the milk into a bowl of cornflakes. Focuses all her attention on not splashing any on the table despite the tremor of frustration in her hand. Task achieved, she yanks open a drawer, pulls out a spoon and shuts the drawer with a resounding clang.

“Look,” Kate interrupts Bernie’s mini reign of terror on her kitchen fixtures, “I saw some really nice kitchens advertised the other day on TV, but I wasn’t planning on –”

“Having me destroy the one you’ve got now? Sorry, I . . .” Bernie sits down at the table, combs fingers through her hair. “I suppose I’m . . .  just out of sorts.”

“It’s a lot take in. And I suppose this woman’s struggling as well.”

“Pftt.” Bernie sounds less than swayed. “I bet her Harvard MA was in pissing other people off for no reason but her own satisfaction.”

 Kate’s brow furrows. “You sound quite the expert? Read her CV, have you?”

 "I . . . may have googled her.”

Kate splutters out laughter. “What?”

“She’s my grandchild’s other grandmother.” Bernie sticks her spoon into her bowl defiantly. “I needed to know . . . things.”

“And this warranted stalking her online, did it?”

“I did no such thing. I researched. Cam mentioned she was a surgeon as well, worked at Holby. I was interested as a fellow . . .”

Lesbian, Kate’s mind suggests. Because how else could this woman have got her cousin so riled up?

“Surgeon,” Bernie finishes. “I did a bit of research. Know the enemy and all that.”

“And found out that, luckily, she’s not ex-mafia?”

 Bernie honks. “No. Just another soulless pen-pusher at the top of the NHS pecking order.”

Kate feels another inexplicable urge to defend this mystery woman, but knows she’s fighting a losing game. Instead, she stifles a yawn. Looks at her wristwatch. Half-eleven. It’s getting late. She looks back to her cousin, wolfing down cereal.

“So,” Kate restarts the subject that they’ve somehow just avoided all night – even though it’s importance is equivalent to several flashing lights hovering in the air. “How far along is the girl? How many weeks?”

For the rest of the conversation, the woman is not mentioned explicitly again, but Kate doubts it will be last she’s heard of her.

-

“Yes?” Serena doesn’t bother to look up from the piece of paperwork in front of her. Even takes a long, luxurious sip of Shiraz before uttering her next words. “What do you want?”

Edward is outside the door, skulking. At Serena’s words, he moves into the dimly-lit light of her office. Hovers in the doorway.

“You got glasses. That’s . . . new.” He leans against the doorframe, fists his hands in his pocket. “You look very –”

“Oh, cut the crap, Edward.” Serena swivels in her chair, peers at her husband over her reading glasses.

“Um, do you really want me to sleep in the spare room? Just so I know where to put my stuff.” 

“I’ve got a mountain of paperwork to complete before tomorrow morning, not to mention a presentation I’ve got to find five minutes to look over before I present it to the board tomorrow, the same board that passed me over for someone who’s probably never wielded a scalpel in their life, hell, they’re probably just out of nappies . . . so just . . . just don’t push it, alright?”

Serena takes off her glasses, pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut. Feels Edward’s hand on her shoulder two seconds later.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Headache, that’s all. I keep getting –” Serena stops herself, shrugs herself away from Edward’s touch. This is what he does. This is how he worms his way back into her life. Pretending he wants to listen to her when she’s got no else who will, but he doesn’t care. Not truly. Just because he’s familiar, just because, for a moment, he’s there, all caring and apologetic and oh, darling how was your day at work, doesn’t mean he cares.

Serena isn’t stupid enough, isn’t desperate enough for affection, however fake, to buy into his façade again.

“Please,” she opens her eyes, “Just go.”

And, with a mercifully soft closing of her office door – her head really is pounding – he slinks away.

-

Bernie and Kate are just about to head up to bed when there’s a rap at the front door. A faint screeching of Bernie’s name. A feminine screeching of Bernie’s name.

Oh god. It can’t be, but – Bernie opens the door to Kate’s house – it is. Bernie’s ex, her hair dripping in the rain, her face streaked with tears and mascara, her mind extremely inebriated.

Oh god.

“Bern,” Alex stutters. “I – I’m sorry to just . . .but I just think that it was kinda shitty of you, I mean I texted you and you never even responded. I know we left it. But I know you’ve started the divorce and – not even a text, Bern? What am I, yesterday’s news?”

“Alex . . .” Bernie’s lost for words.

Alex stumbles up the porch steps, slips. Bernie reaches out, steadies her. Alex’s coat is soaked. She’s freezing. And in no state to go home.

“Let’s erm . . . get you inside, yeah?”

“See,” Alex says as Bernie guides her through the door and into the hallway, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Sorry?”

“Using words.” Alex coughs, holds her hand against her mouth.

“No, no, no,” Kate – who’s been happy to be a background observer to the unfolding lesbian drama, steps forward – “Not the hallway rug. It was my grandmother’s.” She darts into the kitchen, fetches the first containable-sick-thing to hand, a waste basket, before returning to Bernie and Alex, sat on the sofa in her living room. Now it’s her laminate floors at threat.

Kate thrusts out the waste basket to Alex. Alex coughs once more, hangs her head over the bin. Thankfully, nothing comes out. And when Alex offers it back to Kate, Kate pushes it back, insists that Alex keep it.

Alex begins to cry. Bernie shoots a desperate look at Kate – a plea for help. Kate mouths ‘talk to her.’

Bernie mouths ‘and say what?’

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Alex sobs, “I thought I was over it, over you, but I’m not. I can’t stop think about what we had. I miss it.”

“Kate, erm . . .” Bernie asks, “Could you get glass of water, please?”

“Sure.”

When Kate leaves the room, Bernie awkwardly pats Alex on the back. 

“How did you know where I lived?”

“Marcus told me.”

“Marcus? You visited him?” Bernie suddenly feels sick herself. “Why?”

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

“I was still sorting things out.” Secret lesbianism, secret affair, not so secret divorce, Bernie thinks. Doesn’t want to imagine the phone call she’s going to receive off Marcus tomorrow.

“You’ve always got things to sort out. I just always seem to be bottom of the pile.”

“I needed – I need time.”

Bernie turns her head, swears she just heard something. Another knock at the door? At this time of night? Probably just the rain. Still, she rises from the sofa. Goes to investigate.

“I’ll just be a second.”

Bernie hears another knock. Definitely not the weather. Definitely human. Her stomach churns. She prays. Please not Marcus. Please. She can’t deal with two exes on the same night, in the same house. She’d rather eight hours of surgery in a desert than that. Rather anything but that.

Bernie sucks in a breath, braces herself. Twists the door handle.

“Cameron?”

Her son mock-salutes, face sheepish. “Hi, Major?”

“What on earth?” Bernie surveys the bags at his feet.

“I can explain.”

“Please do.”

“I told dad about the baby. He sort of . . . kicked me out.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you everything,” Cam pulls up the collar of his coat against the rain, picks up his bags. “Just inside, please?”

Bernie steps back into the hallway, lets her son past.

Kate pipes up from the back. “It seems I’m running a hostel. Fairly newish development, but I think I’m adjusting . . . Cam, hi?”

“Hi, Kate. Oh and,” he turns back before his mum can close the door, “There’s something else. Back at the door. There’s a sheep. Is it yours?”

 Bernie pokes her head out the door, finds her third visitor of the night. A fluffy white ball stares up at her. Baas.

" _Oh, for fucks sake_.”

"Bernie,” Kate chides, appearing at Bernie’s side, “did you just swear at my sheep?”

“Mum?” Cameron calls from the doorway of the living room, “Why is there a strange woman asleep on the sofa hugging a bin?”


	4. Chapter 4

Serena groans as she stretches her back, tilts her head from side to side. She’s too old to be falling asleep at her desk. She feels her bones creak. Far too old. She blinks sleep out of her eyes. The office is light. She feels as if she hasn’t slept a wink. Edward’s fault, she decides, illogically. His presence in the house. It’s unsettling. Like a ghost’s.

She trudges up the stairs and heads for the shower. Finds the door locked. Hears the running of water. Humming.

Smug, male humming.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she murmurs, before turning around on the landing at the creak of floorboards. “Elinor?”

Her daughter’s up and dressed. At this hour. Miracles can happen.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Elinor explains, hand resting on her stomach.

“Elinor, I – Serena sighs. They never did have that conversation Serena promised last night. She never got to clear the air or comfort her daughter. “You could have come to me.”

“I did. But your bedroom was empty. I figured you were still working.”

“How about I put on the kettle? Make some tea and we can have a chat, hey?”

“Won’t you be late for work?”

Serena waves a hand. “So, what if I am? Besides,” she wants to say, ‘you’re far more important to me’, but instead she on: “Well, I can’t do anything with your father hogging the bathroom. He’s worse than you, you know.”

Elinor smiles. “I know.”

-

Alex sneaks out before Bernie wakes up. There’s no confrontation – something that Bernie’s more than fine with – just a note left on the sofa.

_Sorry. Call me._

“Messy break-up,” Bernie says, apologetically when Kate asks her what last night was.

“I see. Are you going to call her?”

Bernie shrugs.

“It’ll just remain unfinished business if you don’t,” Kate tells her, before leaving the room, passing Cam on her way out.

Bernie shifts her attention onto him and away from Alex and unfinished business.  

“Good sleep?” She asks.

She’s offered Cam the guest room last night. It was late, and she decided to save him “the Spanish inquisition”, Cameron’s words, about what had happened between him and Marcus. She can imagine Marcus being shocked at the news of Cameron’s impending fatherhood, but kicking him out? In the middle of the night? Marcus isn’t one for rash actions in the midst of anger. He’s always had a better temper than Bernie, a longer fuse, but maybe she doesn’t know him – even after decades of marriage.

 “Your dad –” She starts, but Cameron cuts her off.

“The woman, last night? Was that Alex?”

“Yes.” Bernie sees no point in denying it.

“I thought you’d finished things.”

“So had I,” Bernie says. “but she didn’t. She told me she came to the house?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. She crossed a line she shouldn’t have. How did your dad . . . react?”

“It put him in a great mood for when I told about Elinor. He was practically jumping for joy.”

Bernie feels her phone buzz in her pocket. _Oh no._

“Is that?”

Bernie can only wince in response as she slides a finger across her the screen of her mobile.

“Marcus, erm, hi.”

-

“Eleven weeks? Goodness you’ll be going for your first scan soon.”

“Don’t remind me.” Elinor mock-shudders.

Serena reaches out for Elinor’s hand across the kitchen table. “We can go together, if you like?”

“With Cam?”

“Of course.”

“He wants to be involved as much as possible.”

“Good to hear it,” Serena takes a sip of her coffee. “It’s his baby too.”

“Some boys would run a mile, but he’s promised to be there. Properly. Before the birth and . . . after. Of course, we don’t love – we’d never met before the New Year’s Eve party, but we want to move in together, hopefully. Raise the baby together, if not quite as wife and husband, at least as it’s mum and dad.”

“Steady on a second.” The words ‘mum’ and ‘dad’ panic Serena a little. It’s all sounds too real, too quick. Her daughter, no longer a care-free university student, but a mum, raising a baby.

“Elinor,” Serena asks softly, “is that why you really want? Are you certain? Because there’s no going back. At least after 24 weeks. I mean . . . have you considered all the options?”

Elinor draws her hand back.

“It’s a medical procedure. Nothing to be ashamed of, if you do feel like – we can go to a clinic, get you someone to talk to first. In length. Just talk. But so you can make an informed choice. And if you do decide to . . . there’s more people to talk to. Counsellors. Trained professionals. It’s not as scary –”

“Shut up.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t want me to have this baby, do you?”

“I don’t want you making a decision that you -"

“You made up your mind the second I told you, didn’t you? I bet all you could think was mmm,” Elinor makes a show of looking at her watch, “how quick can I book her in for an abortion?

Elinor’s words sting and Serena snaps. “Elinor, I don’t want you throwing your life away at the drop of a hat just because you’ve haven’t taken the time to think things through.”

“ _Excuse me?”_

“Having a baby. Have your really considered how life-changing it will be? You’ve only just started university.”

Elinor jumps to her feet, chair scraping behind her. She raises a hand dramatically to her forehead. “And now, dear lord, I’m a fallen woman who has turned her back on an education forever? I’ll be cast out of respectable society and chained to a kitchen sink for the rest of my life?”

“Elinor –”

“No, you talk of options, mum, say how abortion’s no big deal, I suppose, in this day and age, it isn’t, but really, _throwing my life away,_ you’re the one that sounds like some 1950s housewife.”

Elinor storms out the kitchen, stomps up the stairs. Serena winces as she hears the door slam. Half of her wants to run off to work and, instead of facing her daughter, face the pitying glances of her work colleagues after she was shoved aside for the CEO post, face the board members who did that very act when she presents her case for funding for new trauma facilities. If she gotten the job, the presentation would have been little more than a formality, but now, she knows, they’ll force her to beg like a pauper.

 _Well, fuck them_ , she thinks. Fuck the presentation if it’s all a waste of time and she knows that the board members already made up their minds. So what if she’s late for work and misses the presentation?

Serena heads out of the kitchen, bumps into Edward in the hallway, pulling on his coat.

He cocks his head upstairs. “What have you said to her this time?”

Serena ignores him. “Are you going to work or back to her?”

“If Liberty is her, then yes, I need to pick some papers from her flat.”

“Make sure you talk to her. Get some help. And if it does happen again, make sure you have to some place to go.”

Serena hopes the meaning of her words is clear. Turns for the stairs and doesn’t watch leave the house.

She finds the bathroom door shut.

 “Elinor,” Serena knocks, “I didn’t mean what I said. And I’m not trying to pressurise you into any decision, I promise.”

At the sound of retching, Serena pushes down on the door handle. It isn’t locked. “I’m coming in, okay?”

Elinor is hunched over the toilet seat, shivering and white as a ghost.

“Oh, darling.”

Serena crouches beside her daughter, holds her hair with one hand, rubs her back with the other. Neither of them say anything until the bout of morning sickness passes and Elinor draws back from the toilet.

“This pregnancy thing isn’t really big on dignity, is it?”

“’Fraid not.”

Elinor moves to sit against the bathtub. “Shall I just say goodbye to it now?”

Serena shuffles to sit next to her daughter. “Or you can wait for the ten hours of labour to do it for you.”

Elinor’s nose scrunches up at the prospect.

“But,” Serena adds. “every single second is worth it.”

Elinor’s eyes drop to her lap. “I know you’re disappointed in me –”

“Elinor, I’m –”

“No, I know you are. And not just about the baby. I know you had all these ambitions for me, sent me to one of the best boarding schools in the country, same one nan sent you. I know both you and dad both wanted me to do medicine. I know you think my degree won’t get me anywhere but thousands of pounds in debt.”

“I’ve never said any of that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Look at me. Elinor?” Serena doesn’t continue until Elinor does. “You are _not_ a disappointment to me, do you understand? I am incredibly proud of you. For setting your mind on what you want to do and doing it. I know how much you wanted to get onto the Journalism course and how you hard you worked for it.”

“But now I’m throwing it away?”

“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. It can’t have been easy to tell me about the pregnancy. And I’m glad you talked things through with Cameron, that you’ve already starting to make plans.” Serena wraps her arm around Elinor’s shoulder, pulls her closer. “I am so proud of you,” she tells her again and Serena means it. Knows just how much a daughter needs to hear that from her mother.

“And whatever you chose,” Serena promises. “I will support you.”

“I know there’s still a lot of things to work out and I will sort it out, but . . . I’m keeping it.”

“Okay.” Something flashes over Serena’s face. It finally settles in. “I’m going to be a grandmother.”

Elinor chuckles. “Yeah, that’s generally the idea.”

Serena’s face splits into a grin. “I’m going to have a grandchild.” Her voice is loud, echoes off the bathroom tiles.

Elinor looks panicked. “Shush, dad’s still . . .”

“Don’t worry. I heard him leave a few minutes ago. And don’t worry, I won’t tell him,” Serena reassures her daughter. “It’s your choice, when you’re ready. But you can’t hide this forever.”

“I know. I’ve decided, I’m going to tell him after the scan.”

“Do you want me to book it for you?”

“It’s alright. I’ll do it.”

Elinor gets to her feet. Helps her mother up when Serena protests – or rather her knees do.

“Come on, Grandma.”

-

When the call finishes with Marcus finishes Bernie sets the phone down on the kitchen table as if it’s a bomb she’s just had to defuse. Cameron hands her a plate of warm, buttery toast in sympathy and in hope it will soften the frown on his mother’s face – the one directed at him.

“Your father told me he didn’t kick you out,” Bernie crosses her arms. “You walked out.”

“I couldn’t not, Mum. He was acting absurd. Blowing the whole thing way out of proportion.”

“Yes, because you dropped more than just the baby bombshell on him.”

“Come on,” Cameron protests. “it isn’t that much of a surprise.”

“It is to me.”

“It’s the next logical step.”

“ _The next logical step?_ All these years of study, Cam. Five years of hard work for nothing?”

“Like you said, a baby’s life-changing. I had to rethink some things.”

“Yes, but not quit medicine.”

“It would have never have worked. You and I both know, I can’t cope with the pressure.”

“But quit full-stop?” Bernie can’t believe what’s she hearing. “Couldn’t you have looked at taking a break? Part-time study?”

“I want to _be_ there. For the baby and not just part-time. But properly. I don’t want to be juggling the stress of exams and rotations and spending time with my child. Flouncing in for an hour here and there and leaving all the tough stuff to Elinor.”

“I see.” Bernie says after a moment, struggling to swallow a lump in her throat. Is that what he thinks Bernie was like as a mother? Too career focused at the expense of her kids? Too selfish, even?

“I’m looking for another job,” Cam explains. “I’ll work until the baby’s born. Elinor’s got a part-time job in Starbucks, wants to continue there for as long as she can. We’re going to save up. Then once it’s born, we’re going to, of course, take some time off. We haven’t decided how we’re going to sort out who’s staying at home to care for the baby after the first few weeks, but we will. We’ve thought about this mum, I’ve thought about this and it’s something we want to do.”

“Two wages scarcely over minimum pay aren’t going to solve it all.”

“I know. But we’ll plan. We’ll budget.”

“Why not stick at medicine? A couple more years of study and you’ll be able to comfortably support the child.”

“Because it’s not what I want. And the stress doesn’t just disappear after you stop being a student. The long hours, the unpredictability of whether you’ll get stuck in theatre and won’t make it home to one in the morning.” Cam sighs. “I’ve made my choice, mum.”

“I think –” Bernie begins, but stops herself.

“Go on, just say it.” Cam makes speech marks with his fingers. “I’m throwing my career down the drain.”

“Is that what your dad said?”

“One of the nicer things, yeah.” Cameron’s voice softens. “Thing is, mum, I’m not sure I was ever cut out for medicine.”

“You were passing all your classes, getting the grades, before the . . . the accident. And that was just a blip. I thought you were getting back on track.”

“I am. I was. But I don’t think I ever _wanted_ it. Not as much as you did, or dad.”

“So what? You’re just going to leave it all behind?”

“For now.”

“No clear plan?”

“I have a plan. And I have something else to focus on than just myself, a baby and I’m determined to do whatever’s best for it, even if you think I’m foolish.”

Bernie uncrosses her arms. “I think you’re being brave.”

“So not foolish?”

“I never said that."

Cameron laughs. Bernie follows suit, loud and braying.

“Ah,” Kate pops her head around the door. “Good. Happy lodgers. That’s what I like to hear, especially now we’re all living under one roof.”

“Kate, err . . . offered to let me move in,” Cameron explains to Bernie. “Is that okay?”

Bernie’s shocked at the uncertainty in his voice. “Of course it.”

“Great.” Cam smiles, and Bernie smiles back at him.

-

“Elinor called,” Cameron says later to Bernie.

“Yeah?”

“She’s booked a scan for the baby. Next week.”

“She’s that far along already? Goodness.”

“Will you . . . erm . . . would you mind, coming with me?”

“And miss seeing my grandchild for the first time? You’re kidding.”

“Cool. I’ll go and call Ellie back.”

-

Ellie’s on the phone when Serena comes home from work.

“That was Cam. Just sorting next week out.”

Serena smiles at the thought of seeing her grandchild for the first time, of hearing their heartbeat for the first time. Of holding her daughter’s hand when they hear it together.

Her smile slips at Elinor’s next words.

“He’s bringing his mum.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intrusive thoughts. Edited this chapter instead, so here you go.
> 
> Also, due to an instable mental state and non-existence of a self-esteem, I do sometimes have large gaps of time between updates on my multi-chapter fanfics. Commenting simply that you want an update doesn't help.


	5. Chapter 5

“Anyone want coffee?” Cameron breaks the silence. He, Elinor, his mum and Elinor’s mum are sat waiting for Elinor’s twelve-week scan. The atmosphere is frostier than the North Pole.

“Yes, thanks.” His mum and Elinor’s mum speak at the same time and it drops a couple of more degrees.

“How do you take it, Mrs Campbell?” Cameron asks in his politest phone voice. He may be ever so terrified of his sort of mother-of-law.

“Ms.” Serena corrects him, sharply, as if he’s a child that’s just sworn.

Shit, Cameron thinks. This polite thing is going well. Seven words and he’s already pissed off Elinor’s mother.

“And I’ll have it black,” Serena adds.

Like her heart, Bernie thinks. Ever since she and Cam arrived Serena’s been glued phone. She greeted them in a perfunctory tone, and she’s barely glanced up at them since. She’s typing fast, brow creased in frustration. Elinor, nervously toying with her necklace, seems as if she’s used to it. Bernie wonders which one of them is the moody teenager.

Ten minutes after Cameron goes to grab coffee, a short, brunette woman in scrubs joins them. She shakes Elinor’s hand. “Elinor Campbell? I’m Fleur Fanshawe.” She turns to Bernie and Serena. “And you must be Elinor’s parents.”

Serena’s head snaps up from her phone. “Oh, we’re not . . .” Serena means to say “together”, but she pauses too long and the next word, “lesbians”, falls from her lips so loudly that the other people in the waiting room turn around to her and Bernie, the non-lesbians.

“Pity,” Fleur smiles. “You’d make a lovely couple.”

Bernie’s postured stiffens. She seems to like being mistaken for a couple as much as she does, Serena thinks. Bernie’s gone silent, so Serena takes it upon herself to inform Fleur of the truth. “I’m Elinor’s mother. And Ms Wolfe, she’s the mother of the father-to-be, Cameron, who should be –”

Serena spots Cameron over Fleur’s shoulder. Thank God! An end to this conversation.

“Ah, here he is!”

When Cameron joins Elinor’s side, he’s more than a little confused. Serena is smiling at him, brightly, widely, but his Mum has a face like a wet weekend, and Elinor is turning the pendant of her necklace round so forcefully with her fingers that it’s a miracle the necklace is still in one piece.  

He needs to say something, anything. “The queue was really long, and this old gentleman in front of me ordered like five lattes and . . . yeah . . .” He trails off and hands his Mum and Ms Campbell their coffee.

“Right,” Fleur clears her throat. She knows tension when she feels it. And she knows lesbians. “Shall we make a start?”

Elinor finally pipes up. “I read that sometimes three people are allowed in the room.

Bernie and Serena look at each other in the way that you look at another person when you’re trying to pretend you’re not looking at them. Oh lord, Cameron cringes. What are his Mum and Ms Campbell going to do to decide the third person? Arm wrestle? Actual wrestling?

“Or,” Elinor’s voice turns hopeful. “Maybe four?”

Cameron lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Sweet relief.

“Sorry,” Fleur says sympathetically, “it’s rather cramped. Only two people. Baby’s mother and father?”

Cameron is more than happy to flee the waiting room with Elinor, and, as they follow Doctor Fanshawe, he whispers to Elinor. “What happened?”

Elinor gives him a take a wild guess look. “We can never buy any card with World’s Best Grandmother on. World War Three might start.”

-

Serena once more starts typing on her phone. She’s messaging Edward to see what the situation is with Liberty. Of course, unlike Elinor’s accusations, she does care when men are victims of domestic abuse, despite whether they are cheating assholes. She’s doing her best to help Edward, suggesting possible courses of action and sending him links to online advice pages, but she’s knows he won’t click on the links and he’s already made up his mind about courses of action.

She waits for him to stop buttering her up, plying her with endearments like they’re wine, hoping that if he gives her enough, she’ll lose her senses enough to let him back in her life. She waits for him to ask her to move back into the house. As she does, she multi-tasks. She drafts up a letter of resignation from her role as Deputy CEO. The new CEO of Holby starts next week and he has sent her an E-mail, inviting her to a meeting. Pretty normal, considering she is his Deputy.

Except he stole her job. And she missed the board presentation, choosing instead to stay and nurse a morning-sick Elinor. She doesn’t trust him one jot. And if she senses trouble, she will resign from Deputy CEO before he can humiliate her again. Before he can banish her from the post.

-

“I’m going to the loo.” Bernie tells Serena, voice tight and curt. She’s not. She’s going for a smoke. A better pastime, she thinks, than keeping company with a lesbophobe.

-

Stood outside the entrance of the hospital, Bernie takes a drag of her cigarette and s swipes absentmindedly though her phone. There’s a notification by the E-mail app. She taps on the sign and opens her first unread E-mail.

_Good morning Major Wolfe._

_I heard you were seeking locum work at St James, but they do not have a suitable position to match your prestige. Holby City does. There is a job available on Keller Ward, with possibility of secondment to other wards, if you should wish. It is a twelve-month contract. If you are interested, please respond promptly._

_Regards,_

_Henrick Hanssen, CEO of Holby City Hospital_

-

“They’re so tiny!” An excited Elinor pins her ultrasound scan on the fridge with magnets. With the tips of her fingers she traces the blurry shape of her baby, before placing her hand on her stomach. “They also want milky bars.”

Elinor makes for the stairs, and at her mother’s questioning look, explains: “Cravings. I have an emergency stash in my bedroom.”

In the empty kitchen, Serena repeats Elinor’s actions. Brushes her fingers over the scan. “I have a feeling,” she says, “that you’re going to be as feisty as mother.”

She doesn’t here the sound of the front door, the sound of her ex-husband creeping into her house.

“You’re pregnant.”

Serena jumps at Edward’s voice. Spins around. “What?”

“That’s a baby.” Edward points at the fridge. “That’s a scan of a baby. I did think you seemed rather a bit . . .” Edward gestures, vaguely.

Serena crosses her arms. Dares him to finish that sentence. A bit what? “Edward, get a grip. I’m 51. I’m post-menopausal.”

“You never said.”

“Forgive me if I didn’t tell you every detail of my menstrual cycles or lack thereof when we were together. You didn’t tell me you were sleeping with other women for the past decade. I know Liberty wasn’t the first.”

Edward groans. “I’d thought we’d gotten past this.”

“Dad,” Elinor appears in the doorway, voice meek and quiet. “It’s mine. The baby.”

“Yours?”

Serena tenses, ready for Edward to burst into a rage. But he doesn’t. There’s no shock or worry or not-so-quite-rightly-worded questions.

He sweeps Elinor up in his arms. “Ellie, that’s wonderful news.”

“Really?” She asks, disbelieving.

“Yeah, as long as it’s what you want. What you’re happy with.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Then I’m happy.”

Serena opens the fridge and reaches for a bottle of wine. Edward’s best-father-of-the-year display is turning her stomach. She’s lost her appetite. She skips ahead to a liquid desert.

-

“Ms Campbell,” Mr Hanssen greets her when she steps into his office. “Please, take a seat.”

“What’s this about?” Serena sits.

“I will be calling a meeting this afternoon with all members of senior management, but first I will like to talk about your role at Holby.”

Serena steels herself.

“I’ve done my research, Ms Campbell,” Hanssen continues, “and it seems you have a broad range of duties. Some might say too many. AAU is woefully understaffed and underfunded, even though during the festive period it received a a record number of patients and its facilities also leave much to be desired.”

No, shit Sherlock, Serena thinks.

Hanssen rests his elbows on his desk, steeples his fingers together. “You have stacked up an impressive amount of overtime, no doubt trying to keep AAU afloat. And then there are your commitments as Deputy CEO. The fundraisers, reports, meetings . . . presentations.”

He is talking about last week. Her unforeseen family commitment.

“And after all your research,” Serena asks, “what’s your diagnosis?” She’s seen this man’s type before, the one to whom the idea of a woman juggling work and family is incomprehensible.

“I’m hiring a co-lead for AAU. Someone equal in status who could help bear the –”

“You think I’m incapable of running it myself?” Serena feels as if she’s been shot. This, this, is worse than dismissal from the role of Deputy CEO. This is subtler, crueller. He’s giving half her ward away to someone equal in status, which means someone equal in power, someone to overrule her, to question her judgement, to keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn’t slip up. And Hanssen, her new commander, will compare the both of them. See if Serena still measures up.

“Why not just replace me?” Serena asks.

Hanssen sounds surprised.

“Because AAU needs you. But I also need you as my deputy. Everyone has limits and I do not want to push you past yours. You are a fine doctor, and a fine leader, and your work at this hospital over the past five years has been most commendable, but I want you at your best.”

“Who’s the co-lead?” Serena says, trying to keep her voice level. There’s a hard lump forming in her throat.

“Someone with an outstanding reputation in trauma.”

“Do I get a name?”

“I want you to get to know each other on AAU, in the midst of battle, so to speak. I think you’ll make an excellent team.”

-

Serena goes to bed early that night, 9’o’clock. Curled up under her duvet, she listens to the sounds of Elinor and Edward laughing. He moved all the rest of his things in today. His books are on her shelves, his toiletries are in one of her bathrooms, his shoes and coats are in her hallway, his ugly and expensive electrical whisk is in her kitchen. She can hear the hum. He and Ellie are baking. Edward was always a better baker than her, but since when did Elinor like to bake? Edward’s singing along to music. He could always hold a tune better than Serena, too.

The opening strains of Fleetwood Mac’s _The Chain_ float up to Serena’s bedroom. Serena’s body clenches up, tight. He’s not just content to ruin their marriage, she thinks. Oh no, he has to ruin her favourite band as well. He has to steal that from her. She wants to spring out of bed and thunder downstairs and hurl his phone onto the floor, silencing it forever. She wants to tell Elinor that’s it’s all a lie. He’ll get disinterested with her. He’ll get disinterested in the baby. And when Elinor needs him the most, he won’t be there. He’ll be in some sleazy pub, or another woman’s equally sleazy bed.

But who is Serena kidding? She didn’t even have the energy to brush her teeth. She just clambered into bed, her movements heavy and slow with tiredness. God, she’s tired. Too tight to fight with Edward, just like she was too tired to fight against Hanssen’s decision, to fight for her ward.

In the darkness of her bedroom, she reaches for her phone. The light burns her eyes, but she doesn’t dim it. She opens up an app. Searches for a profile.

_Caroline Dawson, 53._

They’d texted for a bit, flirted. It was fun and nice and new. Caroline had been one of the first women Serena had saw on the app, one of the first women that Serena had liked and she quickly became the one Serena liked the most.

But Serena texts to Caroline became shorter and less frequent. She could blame the stress of family life, of reordering her priorities, because it was before she learnt of Elinor’s pregnancy. It was work. That was the simple answer. After the divorce, she threw herself into work. She had needed to do something she knew she was good at. Marriage. Evidently not. Motherhood. Hardly. Medicine? It was the thing left she had faith in.

And besides she knew things with Caroline couldn’t lead anywhere. When did Serena had the time for a proper relationship? _A same-sex_ relationship. Serena was a divorced workaholic who’d never so much as kissed a woman before. She couldn’t imagine telling Elinor that she was dating a woman.

_Serena Campbell. Washed-up mid-life lesbian._

So, Serena stopped texting Caroline, and now she can’t find Caroline’s dating app profile. She must have deleted it. Serena opens Facebook. Elinor got her an account five years ago that she’s hardly used since. She searches for Caroline. Somehow, she finds her account. Finds photos of her and another woman. They look very in love.

Serena shuts off her phone. Tears well in her eyes. She doesn’t think they’re over Caroline, but she tells herself that they are. She doesn’t want to think any deeper. There’s too many thoughts whirling around in her head, and they’re pull her down if she lets them.

Serena turns over and cries herself to sleep.

-

Not even the sound of baaing from her bedroom window can dampen Bernie’s mood, or the twinge of pain in her back as she gets dressed. For the past two days, she’s been working on Keller Ward at Holby, and she’d forgotten how much she missed surgery. The ward is far slower than she was used to out in the field, but after weeks spent recovering from her injuries, holed up in Kate’s farm, Bernie is immensely grateful. So what, she’s locked horns several times with Ric Griffin over patient care, but she was never one to just fall into line.

Hanssen has kept a close eye on her over the past two days, but she isn’t fazed. He reminds her of a commanding officer she had, one who used to sneak up on people like a ghost. He hasn’t said much, and Bernie can only hope that’s a good thing. She really wants it to work at Holby. She can do what she loves whilst remaining close to Cameron, Elinor and their baby. And as for her one misgiving about taking the job . . . she hasn’t run into Serena Campbell once. Maybe it’s above her to journey down from her glass tower and amongst the common people.

Bernie arrives on Keller Ward for her shift early, refreshed and excited. Hanssen materialises seconds after.

“A word, Ms Wolfe?”

“Sure.”

He takes her to one side. “I want to transfer you to another word.”

“Has someone said something?” Bernie knows her gung-ho style doesn’t match everyone’s pace. Especially Ric Griffin’s.

“On the contrary,” Hanssen replies. “Your colleagues have been singing your praises. I have been very impressed, but I feel like your talents can be better utilised elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“Follow me.”

-

“This Ms Wolfe is the Acute Admissions Unit." It looks like chaos. It looks like a home for Bernie, one better suited than Keller. But Bernie doesn't have time to feel thankful for Hanssen's choice. 

A woman is marching towards them. She wears light blue scrubs and her hair is ruffled, likely from a scrub cap. She brushes it back with her fingers. She must have just come out of theatre. 

“And this is Serena Campbell, your new co-lead," Hanssen says.

"What?" Serena's shocked tone is piercing. She folds her arms and Bernie's eyes drop to skim over the freckles on Serena's bare arms. She can't meet Serena's eyes. 

And all she can think is: _FUCK._


End file.
